


Wild Hunt

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Magical Realism, Memory Loss, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Possessive Behavior, Time Skips, Violent Sex, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-27
Updated: 2008-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The last time he checked, 'Hey, I'm having weird dreams about plants and I kind of want to run into the forest and fuck until my dick falls off, whaddaya say?' is not the best way to get his brother to take him seriously.</i>  Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm playing with the whole Wild Hunt mythology here, and not terribly well. Indulge me.

A few days after Christmas, Sam finds a hunt in upstate New York. It's almost not enough to ping his radar, on the surface: a few hikers gone missing in the Adirondacks, local authorities putting it down to inexperience and exposure. It's not an uncommon occurrence in the area. What gets Sam's attention isn't the fact that people are going missing; it's the one person that came back.

"Hey." He spins the laptop around on the table, interrupting Dean's communion with his bacon and eggs. "Think I found something."

Dean scans the article for a few seconds, lips moving as he reads, then looks up at Sam and nods.

"Let's check it out."

"It'll be cold," Sam points out. "The Adirondacks aren't exactly mild this time of year."

"Come on, Sam. Where's your inner fortitude? Your sense of adventure?" Dean shoves a forkful of home fries in his mouth and talks around them. "We could hunt Bigfoot while we're there. Maybe get a look at Champ."

"You can't be serious." Sam stares at his brother's grinning face. "Oh my God, you _are_ serious. Dean, you know those stories are hoaxes, right?"

"Nothing wrong with a little first-hand investigation," Dean says. "I always wanted to see the Loch Ness Monster, except, you know." He waves his fork, which Sam takes to mean 'but I'm not getting on a plane to do it'. He also sees what Dean's not saying, about the calendar they're both not keeping in their heads.

"Okay." He turns the laptop back around, starts mapping out a route. "But if we end up camping, I'm blaming you."

* * *

It's a ten hour drive from Ypsilanti. They do it in a day, Dean behind the wheel with his foot on the gas as if the hellhounds are already chasing him. Sam wants to ask if Dean can hear them, if they've started growling in his dreams, but he doesn't want to disturb the new accord between them. If there really is no way out of the deal--and given Ruby's recent lack of help on that front lately, despite her claims to the contrary--then Sam wants Dean's last few months to be good, and not just for Dean's sake. He wants something to remember when Dean's gone that isn't tainted with blood and pain and death.

It's not giving up. Sam refuses to believe that. But he's always been able to see both sides of a given situation. It's why he wanted to be a lawyer in the first place.

They take the long way across Ohio and Pennsylvania to avoid crossing into Canada (because the only thing worse than getting arrested at this point, Dean says, would be getting arrested by _Mounties_ ), and finally hit the Saranac Lake region around seven. It's already full dark; sunset in the mountains comes early in winter, and what warmth there was in the day has leeched away with the light. Dean pulls into the driveway of the motel Sam booked before they left Michigan and kills the engine with a sigh.

"I hate staying in these places," Dean grouses. "Everyone's always so _nice_."

"Yeah, that's a huge failing in a place that depends on tourism and repeat custom," Sam deadpans.

"You know what I mean." Dean flicks him an irritated glance. "The minute you check in it's like they want to adopt you. Freaks me out."

"They have free wireless, and they had a vacancy." Sam shrugs. "We could always try to find a camp site, if you want."

Dean's snort is eloquent.

"Don't even mention the c-word around me, dude," he says. "Go get the room. And no flowered wallpaper this time."

Sam almost asks if they have a honeymoon suite, just to be annoying.

Once they're checked in (proprietor: overly cheerful and talkative, wallpaper: striped), Dean somehow manages to spread the entire contents of his duffle over half the room in thirty seconds flat. Sam swallows a comment about alpha males marking their territory and brings his laptop out of hibernation.

"So what's the plan?" Dean says, peering inside the minibar. "Hey, they've got Twizzlers." He opens the packet and sticks one in his mouth, chewing noisily.

"It's too late to do anything tonight. Too cold," Sam elaborates when Dean raises an eyebrow. "I've compiled a list of the people who went missing and where they were last seen." He shuffles through the cursory file he's made up, separating a sheet of paper from the bunch. "There was one guy who came back, apparently, late last month. Went missing like the others, was gone for a week and a half, then turned up at the edge of the lake, over a hundred miles away from where he disappeared. He was suffering severe hypothermia and appeared to be 'speaking an unknown language'." He lets his tone indicate the quote marks. "Nobody could get any sense out of him."

"So, we find this guy and talk to him, if we can." Dean shrugs. "Maybe he'll respond better to someone who doesn't think he's going crazy."

"Assuming he didn't," Sam points out. "In any case, we can't. He died in hospital, two days after he came out of the forest."

"Oh." Dean's face falls. "Well, that sort of sucks."

"Just a little, yeah," Sam agrees. "We can ask around tomorrow, see if there's a pattern to the disappearances. Talk to the locals about this guy, find out if there's an opinion that didn't make it into print."

"You're getting soft, Sammy." Dean tsks, sprawling over his bed, pushing the candy around his mouth. His tongue pokes out, glistening obscenely, and Sam looks away. "I thought you'd want to start knocking on doors right away. What happened to that gung-ho spirit of saving innocent people's lives at all costs?"

"It's the middle of winter on the Canadian border," Sam replies dryly. "You want to be a hero and freeze your nuts off tramping around all night in the forest, go for it. I'll wait until we know for sure whether there's actually something supernatural going on, thanks. It could just be a bunch of people getting lost and falling off a cliff for all we know."

"Who died and made you Mr Cautious?" Dean says.

"You did."

The minute Sam says it he wants to take it back, but Dean's already drawing back, his face closing down for the briefest instant as he absorbs the hit. Sam grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut--anything he says now will just make it worse--and waits for Dean's response.

"I'm hungry," Dean says, though he looks anything but. "There a diner somewhere in this town?"

* * *

They eat at Guido's, huge handmade pizzas loaded with sausage, pepperoni, garlic, mushrooms and olives, and racks of ribs so tender Dean practically moans with satisfaction. Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye, amused and fascinated by the openness of Dean's reaction. He's never felt comfortable showing that much of himself to strangers, even if it's only an appreciation of good food. Dean, though; he embraces things in a way that escapes Sam. Dean's a sponge, soaking up everything he comes into contact with, trying to absorb it all while he still has the chance. It makes Sam's heart ache to watch, but he can't bring himself to stop. He wants to store up these memories of Dean for the time when he won't have anything else.

An hour later, stuffed full of pizza and beer, they stagger back out onto the street. Sam reels a little as the cold air hits him square in the face, shocking him out of the half-daze that warmth and Dean's satisfied smile had woven around him. He sees Dean doing the same thing, shaking his head and blinking rapidly, staring up into the sky. There's a sickle moon shining bright like a sliver of ice with a million shards of stars around it. Sam watches Dean, taking in the line of his shoulders under leather, the gleam of moonlight on his stubbled jaw. The smell of the forest is strong, damp earth and growing things, curling around him like a clinging vine. He feels dizzy.

"Whoa," Dean says, and Sam realises he's right there, steadying Sam with a hand under his elbow. "Okay, time for bed. You're turning into a real lightweight, you know that? A few beers with dinner and suddenly you're falling over your own feet."

"I'm not drunk," Sam protests. "I'm ... I don't know."

He _shouldn't_ be drunk; they'd only had one pitcher between them, and a hell of a lot of pizza to soak it up in. But he's off-balance, leaning into Dean like his internal compass is on the fritz, and there's a weird fluttering sensation in his stomach when Dean hefts Sam's arm around his neck. These are things that don't ever happen when he's sober. He keeps better control of himself than this.

"Whatever you say, dude," Dean huffs, walking them both the five blocks to the motel. "I guess I'm just gonna be putting you to bed tonight for fun, huh?"

Sam doesn't trust himself to answer that.

Dean deposits him on his bed when they get inside. Sam gets his shoes off more through luck and gravity than force of will, then shoves a pillow under his head and fades into sleep without a word, feeling Dean's puzzled eyes on him.

* * *

His dreams are green and red, leaves and boughs and tangles of thorns, the flash of a knife and a spray of bright blood that makes his heart pound in his chest. He's frozen, gone tharn, caught in a place he can't see and doesn't know, the urge to run and run and run like a fire in his veins. He wants to throw his head back and yell, he wants to fight, he wants to fuck.

He catches a scent in the depths of slumber, and his whole body stiffens in recognition. It's love and comfort and safety and home, it's fear and anger and loss and lust, and his mind dithers in confusion, unsure whether to run _to_ or _away_. He trembles, held in thrall, as a face made of shoots and vines peers at him through closed eyes.

_Why do you flee?_

_Because I must._

The eyes open, seeing him. Seeing everything.

His heartbeat doubles, breath hitching into hyperventilation, and Sam blacks out in his sleep.

* * *

They make the rounds in town the next day, posing as writers gathering information for a book about the natural history of the area. Dean takes the lead at first, but the locals don't buy into his friendly smiles and attempts at subtle interrogation. It's not unusual; people often respond better to Sam asking them questions, much to Dean's irritation. Sam doesn't usually mind--whatever gets them the information they need, to a point, he's willing to do. This time, however, there's something else going on under the surface that he doesn't understand. This time, the locals take one look at Sam and refuse to talk to them at all.

"I don't get it," Dean says after they finally admit defeat, slumped on a park bench with coffee and the best blueberry muffins Sam's ever tasted. "You're the one with all the people skills." He's frowning as he says it, as if he's taken personal offence to the fact that people won't talk to Sam. "I mean, you're weird, but you're not _that_ weird."

"Thanks," Sam says dryly. "That makes me feel so much better."

He's on edge, skittish, unable to meet anyone's gaze but Dean's. And when he does look at his brother, a green tinge comes over Sam's vision and he's swamped by the need to run. It makes no sense--despite appearances, he has never once wanted to escape from Dean--but that doesn't seem to matter. Sam looks at Dean, and he quivers as if barely held at the straining edge of a leash. His whole body yearns for _away, not here, green and damp, warm and dark, away away away_.

At the same time, all he can think of is Dean. His hands itch to touch his brother in ways not reasonable or sane. He wants to make Dean whimper, scream, growl. He wants Dean to chase him and knock him down and take what Sam has coming to him, what Sam will force him to take. Conflicting urges, warring needs, and Sam's caught smack in the middle of it. There's definitely something supernatural going on here; he's just not sure he wants to know what it is. He definitely doesn't want to explain his reasons to Dean, either, because the last time he checked, 'Hey, I'm having weird dreams about plants and I kind of want to run into the forest and fuck until my dick falls off, whaddaya say?' is not the best way to get his brother to take him seriously.

"Well then." Dean tips back the rest of his coffee, throat muscles working smoothly, and crumples the cup in his hand. "Guess we're gonna have to do this the old fashioned way. Fancy a trip into the forest, Sammy-boy?"

He grins at Sam, mimes cocking a gun at him, and doesn't notice when Sam shudders.

* * *

The forest closes over them like a blanket, cutting off light and air and all sense of the world outside. Sam breathes in the smell of it, damp earth and growing things, the same scent that's been weaving in and out of his consciousness since they got here. His knees buckle at its strength, every nerve tingling and his heartbeat thundering in his chest. His body floods with adrenalin, adding to the chaos, and Sam sways under the assault.

"Hey, whoa," Dean says in alarm, switching his shotgun to the other side, steadying Sam with a hand on his arm. "Take it easy, little brother--"

The second Dean touches him, the earth ripples beneath Sam's feet and he can hear the baying of hounds. A shock travels through him like electricity, like desire, current running from Dean to himself and back again; too late, he sees Dean's eyes widen in realisation of what's really going on.

Out of the trees a rider comes, on a dark horse lathered in sweat. Its eyes are rolling and its sides heave in laboured, panting wheezes, but it paws the ground with one hoof when its rider pulls it up short.

"Hail and well met, hunter and prey," he greets them, half-bowing from the saddle. "You are welcome to our hunt this e'en."

Sam is poised, ready to flee at the first word from the rider's mouth. Dean, however, is solid and still under that steady gaze, weapon held loosely by his side.

"Hunter and prey," Dean repeats, as if tasting the words. He meets the rider's eyes without flinching, and Sam stifles a whimper. "Which is which?"

"I think you know," the rider tells them, looking from Dean to Sam and back again. "You are marked as the prey of another, and that is a bargain I will not cross. But you may join us in our pursuit of your brother, who is eager for the chase."

Dean slides a look at Sam, a smile hooking the edge of his mouth into a wicked curve. Sam's gaze whites out for a second; he sees the hunter under Dean's skin, and it sends a feral thrill down his spine. His breath comes faster, storing oxygen in his lungs and muscles, preparing him to run.

Dean's eyes pass over him slowly, assessing, calculating. His tongue darts out to wet parted lips, sharp teeth flashing white. Sam jerks in reaction, held in place by an unnamed compulsion that says _not yet_.

"See?" the rider murmurs. "He longs for one to bring him down, and he would rather it be you. Join us, and you may yet have the chance."

Sam watches in terror and relief as Dean nods, slowly, once. His gun falls from nerveless fingers, making no sound as the humus swallows it deep. Dean does likewise, drawing his knife instead, seven-inch blade of pure tempered steel that brings a smile to the rider's face.

"You will do well," he predicts, turning his horse with a deft touch. "Perhaps even win the day. Only time will tell, and that time is _now_."

All of Sam's muscles unlock at once, and before he consciously wills it, he's moving. He hears Dean's whoop of joy behind him, the crashing of hooves, the excited yelps of the pack, and he runs.

* * *

Hours or minutes pass, and Sam runs. Pelting mindlessly through the forest, swerving and hurdling obstacles of fallen trees and low branches, ignoring the pain of scratches and welts gained from miscalculations--he flees as if his feet have wings, lightly touching down on earth before springing off again. His blood courses in his veins, light and free, a heady wildness filling him as he stretches his body to its limits. His jacket weighs him down; he shrugs it off, hearing the Hunt's triumphant calls behind him as they find it for a trophy. He runs, heart beating swiftly in his breast, limbs smooth and lithe and made for this.

Dean is keeping pace in the trees behind him, never slowing, never more than a few yards back. Sam knows the pack is already lost to the chase, unable to find them, the Hunt milling aimlessly to the southwest with no hope of scenting his trail. This chase is for Dean and him alone. He feels Dean's approval, senses his hunger, and it spurs him on to greater lengths.

Time passes unremarked, fades into insignificance. Sam runs, and forgets why he is running; he only knows that he must, that he cannot stop, he must keep hurtling deep into the heart of the forest until he is caught or until he dies. He tries to slow down, and his feet fly ever faster; he tries to stop, and an invisible force pushes him forward, wrenching his joints against his will, causing unbearable pain until he shrieks and picks up his own feet again, stumbling back into the punishing pace.

His brother has gained on him, closing the distance to feet instead of yards. Sam begins to falter, sees the danger of the Hunt now that it's too late to escape; sooner or later he will fall, and Dean will be on him, and Dean. Dean has a knife, the knife their father gave him, and Sam is already falling.

Dean's weight hits him from behind, and a fresh surge of panic gives him energy. Sam rolls, facing his pursuer, teeth bared in defiance against Dean's manic grin bearing down on him. They roll and scrabble on the ground, clothes and leaves and dirt flying everywhere, Sam's teeth deep in Dean's wrist sending the knife skittering into the dark. From then on it's all fists and nails and biting, marking turn and turn about until neither can tell which is hunter and which is prey. Sam scratches deep and bloody halfway down Dean's back, drawing a growl from his brother, and Dean lies heavy on his chest and pins Sam's wrists over his head.

"Yield," he demands, looming over Sam's head, eyes wild and all but black. "You have to yield."

Sam rears up, ignoring the pain in his shoulders, and bites him hard over his heart.

"Make me," he challenges. "Jerk."

Dean's mouth curves in a deadly smile.

"My pleasure," he breathes. _Bitch_."

Sam whines high in his throat as Dean's mouth comes crashing down.

* * *

It's a hard and vicious coupling, eased only by blood and sweat and announced with cries of pleasure and agony both. Sam rakes his nails over every inch of Dean's skin, hissing, as Dean pushes forcibly inside; no gentle or soft joining, this, but a fierce and brutal thing witnessed only by the forest. Sam bucks and writhes and twists, legs a vise around Dean's back, pinning him in place, pushing him deeper despite the pain. Dean's head is thrown back, teeth clenched as he thrusts, chanting Sam's name in a breathless litany of growls. They clash and slide and clash again, fighting to get closer, get control, driven onward despite themselves by the greenness in the air. Sam forces his eyes away from Dean, looks up into the trees and sees the face from his dream, eyes open and watchful, and a shudder rips through him. He digs his heels into Dean's spine and arches, and Dean sends a curse into the air and fucks into him harder.

 _Forever_ , Sam thinks hazily with the small part of him that's still sane. _It wants to keep us like this forever. The Hunt, the forest, all of it._ He moans around Dean's tongue, deep in his mouth, bitter taint of fresh cut grass and loam. Sam sucks it in greedily, cock standing out hard and red against his belly, and screams when Dean's hand snakes around it and starts to jerk.

"Come on," Dean commands, sucking a deep red mark on Sam's neck, marking him, claiming him for his own. "Come on, Sam, come with me, come for me, finish this thing or we'll never leave." He fucks deep, grinds into Sam's prostate, pulls out and does it again. "Do it, come on, do ... as you're ... fucking ... _told_ \--"

Sam turns to liquid fire, exploding from his spine upward and outward, arched so taut he can't breathe. He sees stars, cartwheeling in unknown constellations overhead, Dean's voice echoing his in a wordless cry of completion. They roll and tumble against each other, upside down and inside out, and then at last everything ... stops.

* * *

They don't talk on the way back to the motel. Sam walks a good five feet away from Dean, eyes on the ground and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. Their guns were right beside them when they sat up, along with Dean's knife.

He doesn't suggest going back to look for his jacket.

* * *

"Look," Dean says finally. "It was a compulsion, right? Out of our control. We couldn't have done anything about it."

"Right," Sam agrees. He's staring at Dean's hands as he cleans his gun. Dean's knees are spread wide under the table. Sam wonders if he could fit under there. He wonders if Dean would object if he tried. His mouth waters at the thought of it.

"And we got through it okay," Dean adds. His eyes flick up for a fraction of a second, but Sam's already looking elsewhere.

"We can't go back in there, though." He feels Dean's hesitation, presses on. "We can't, Dean. It's a Wild Hunt. There's no way to kill it."

"What, so we just walk away? Without even trying?"

"We _did_ try," Sam hisses, slamming his hand down on the table. He gets right in Dean's face. "We got maybe five feet past the treeline before they had us, and we didn't come out for _three days_. We were lucky to get out alive, Dean, do you get that? And if we go in a second time we won't get out again."

Dean stares at him, gun lying forgotten on the table between them. Sam is coiled like a spring about to break, fear and want warring deep in his core. He wants to go back to the forest. He _needs_ to. But he has four months left with Dean, and he is not going to lose them. Three days was bad enough.

"Did I," Dean says, and his voice cracks. He flushes, tries again. "I mean, was it--did it--"

"I am not talking about this with you," Sam says through gritted teeth. Gritted, because he doesn't trust himself not to beg for it. He pushes away from the table and goes to the window, staring blindly out at the snow.

"Okay." Dean's voice is quiet. "Okay, Sammy. Sorry." There's a pause, as if he's debating something, and then he adds, "Uh, Happy New Year."

Sam cocks his head and turns to look, sees a tiny bottle of champagne on the table. Dean pushes it over with a finger, carefully, not looking at Sam.

"Happy New Year," Sam repeats blankly, and startles himself with laughter.

He sees Dean grin to himself, face tilted down and looking about sixteen years old for the briefest of moments, and he _wants_ , without sense, without thought, without a care for the morals and niceties of society or even what Dean might think. The thrall of the Hunt is still on him, filling him with a heat now languid instead of fierce, drawing him to Dean's side before he's even aware of moving.

"Sam?" Dean's looking up at him now, a tiny frown line between his eyes like he can't smell the need on Sam's skin. "You okay?"

"I don't want to _talk_ ," Sam says, low and rough. He leans down in one sinuous motion, gripping the back of Dean's neck hard, and takes his brother's mouth in a punishing kiss. Dean goes still and stiff for half a second, trying to fight it; Sam bites his lip in warning, draws blood, and Dean makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. His mouth opens wide, all but snapping at Sam's tongue, and the table slides a good five feet across the floor as Dean surges to his feet, arms closing around Sam in a steel-cage grip that he couldn't escape if he tried.

Sam doesn't try. He melts into Dean's hold, moaning around his tongue, fingers clumsy and bruising in his attempts to get to bare skin. He gets a fistful of Dean's shirts in one hand and pulls, sending buttons flying across the room; puts his mouth on the already-fading marks he'd left in the forest, bringing them up bright and new. Dean's nails dig into him at shoulder and hip, dragging Sam in closer, one thigh thrusting between Sam's legs and grinding hard against him. The air in the room is warm and moist, charged with the same wild energy from beyond the trees; Sam lets himself fall into it, spoils of the Hunt, hunter claiming prey. He bites down on Dean's collarbone to leave his own claim and comes away with his mouth bloody.

Dean stumbles away from him, one hand over the bite and a lost look on his face that makes Sam want to whine. He steps forward, needing the contact, needing _Dean_ to quench the fire raging in his blood.

"Stop," Dean says shakily, holding up one hand. "Sammy, you gotta--we gotta stop. You don't want this." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, as if he doesn't trust himself to lick the taste of Sam away. "This isn't right. It isn't us, I can feel it."

"Can't stop it," Sam mutters, stalking him across the room. "Don't _want_ to, Dean, just--" He comes to a halt a few feet away, holding back with an effort that makes his eyes water. "Just let me," he pleads, "Dean, just let me, please, I want ..."

Dean's shaking his head, jaw so tight Sam knows it has to be hurting. He moves quicker than Sam can block him, darting past the table and toward the door with his jacket in one hand and the car keys in the other. Sam's after him in an instant, barely missing the edge of his jacket as Dean slides behind the wheel, fetching up hard against the door as Dean slams it closed between them. Sam stumbles away when Dean revs the engine, vibrations setting off a thrumming in his spine, and stares in numb shock as the Impala peels out of the parking lot in a squeal of burning rubber.

Inside the room, his phone starts ringing.

"Come back," he begs when he picks up. "Come back here right _now_ , Dean."

"Can't do that, Sammy." Dean's voice is clipped. "Go to bed and sleep it off. I'll be back in the morning. We'll talk about it then."

He hangs up without another word. Sam calls him seventeen times in five minutes and Dean doesn't once pick up. He can feel him, though, and it leaves his skin crawling with need and his cock so hard he can barely walk across the room.

Sam sits on a chair in front of the window, seething, and starts sending out a silent call for his hunter to return and claim him.

* * *

An hour later Dean comes charging through the door, Sam's name a hoarse curse on his lips.

Sam's ready and waiting, yanking Dean close and moulding their bodies together from chest to knee. A deep shudder passes through them both, the ache in Sam's gut soothed by Dean's hands buried wrist deep in his hair, holding him tight. Dean is hard; Sam can feel it rising against his belly, taste the sharp scent of it in the air. He sniffs, growls, snaps at Dean's mouth when Dean tries to kiss him.

"Someone's had you," he hisses. "Someone _else_ has had your cock. I can smell her on you."

"I had to," Dean whispers, light kisses against Sam's temple. "I was burning up, trying to fight it. Didn't want to come back here and hurt you."

"Did you fuck her?" Sam demands, grinding his teeth even as his cock gets impossibly harder, a mental image of Dean plowing some faceless woman's cunt, sweating and rutting like a beast in heat. "Did you make her spread her legs for you, give her what should be mine?"

"Yes." Dean's throat works, forcing the words out. "I _had_ to, Sammy, I could feel you calling me and everything was so bright and I just wanted to come back here and fuck you wide open until you screamed, and I ..."

Sam bites him again in answer, getting a hand under his shirt, nails drawing fresh scratches from neck to navel in four perfect scarlet lines. Dean inhales harshly and pulls Sam's head back with a fist in his hair, exposing his throat, making him vulnerable. Sam bares his teeth in a snarl.

"Bathroom," he grits out. "Now."

Dean drags him in there, sucking at Sam's neck and manhandling him across to the shower. Sam is stripping them both as they go, shoving away shirts and unbuckling belts, wanting the taint of _other_ gone from Dean's skin. It's only half compulsion now; part of him, the little-brother part that idolises Dean in secret, is meanly, viciously gleeful at the thought of washing away all traces of anyone but him, leaving his own smells and touches and marks instead. He wants Dean surrounded by everything that screams _Sam_.

They stagger into the tiny bathroom in a disheveled clinch, glancing off the doorjamb in a misstep that drives the breath from Sam's lungs. It's the only bruise he'll wear tomorrow that doesn't come from Dean's hands. He pulls away long enough to start the water running; when he turns back Dean is dropping his clothes on the floor, his body strong and pale and perfect and _Sam's_ , and Sam forgets about the Hunt altogether.

"Dean," he breathes, frozen in place, staring. Dean smiles razor-sharp and predatory, eyes fixed on Sam with chilling intensity.

"Now you got me in here, Sam, what're you gonna do with me?"

Sam pushes him into the stall and follows after, not bothering to undress. Steam rises around them, water and air clashing with fire and earth, washing away everything that isn't made up of the two of them together. Sam drops to his knees and closes his eyes, taking Dean's cock deep in his mouth.

"Sam," Dean chokes, one hand closing tight on Sam's head, the other slapping hard against the wall. Sam doesn't mess around, no teasing licks or care for what Dean likes and doesn't; he just sucks hard, gripping Dean's hips, imprinting the taste in his memory and loving the stream of curses and grunts that pours from his brother's mouth. The Hunt's spell is fading fast; the pull of the forest is still there, demanding he submit to this, force Dean to take him again and again for all eternity, but it's muted, lost in the overwhelming desire Sam has to claim Dean as his own. Years of repressed want are coming to the surface, the Hunt's call raising the lid on a Pandora's box of urges and needs and impulses Sam's been ignoring for half his life. He sucks Dean's cock almost mindlessly, greedy for it, demanding a response that Dean gives up in a rush of bitter confirmation. Sam swallows it with a whimper, water pounding down around him, knees aching from the tiled floor and his wet clothes chafing like a bitch. The taste clings in his mouth, marking him from the inside out.

Dean slides down the wall, legs sprawled awkwardly on either side of Sam's hips. His skin is flushed, whether from the shower or the blowjob Sam can't tell. The look on his face, though: Sam put that there. The expression of dazed satiation, the loose smile Dean only gets when he's fucked out right down to his bones; he didn't look like that earlier, when they stumbled out of the forest, or when he came back from whatever bar he'd gone to in order to escape from Sam. That look is Sam's doing, and seeing it fills him with a surge of pure satisfaction.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says at last on a gust of air. He nudges Sam's hip with his knee, necessary contact. "You been saving that up for a rainy day?"

"Something like that," Sam murmurs. He winces; his throat is sore. He loves it.

Dean crawls over to him, reaching up to turn off the water on his way. He leans in close, hovering over Sam on his knees, hands braced against the wall behind Sam's head.

"You gonna bite me if I kiss you?" he asks with a grin.

Sam tilts his face up and grins back, bright and challenging.

"Try it and see."

* * *

The forest is quiescent that night, its needs slaked, the Hunt honoured with a chase that will not be equaled for a hundred years. The hunter sleeps wrapped around his prey, their fires banked, only human needs and desires left in play. They will pay a tithe to the Hunt with every joining, a remembrance of what the Old Ones caused to be, that otherwise would have remained unspoken.

That will be enough, Sam thinks sleepily, to satisfy the green. And if it isn't, the Hunt will come and find them once again.

END


End file.
